Are We Supposed to Take This Seriously?
by Riathe Mai
Summary: Inspired by the E/O Drabble Challenge Phrase of the week...Sort of. :-) Before there was Lilith, there was…whatever the heck this is. Sam and Dean learn that they shouldn't judge a monster by how it looks…or how it talks. Hurt/Sam ProtectiveBigBrother/Dean


**Spoilers: **This takes place sometime during Season 1.

**A/N1:** This is for poor Kailene who has been battling the flu this week. It is inspired by a misinterpretation of the phrase issued as this week's E/O Drabble Challenge. In her fevered, over-medicated state, she had misread the email and thought the phrase was "grins with delicious goodness", not "this might sting". She was relieved when she realized she didn't have to try to use that in a 100-word drabble, but I was now intrigued. How _would_ one use "grins with delicious goodness" in a story?

**A/N2: **This started out as an attempt at a 100-word Get Well crack-drabble, but Kailene wanted some h/c brotherly shmoop to make her feel better. This clocks in at around 4071 words.

**Summary:** Before there was Lilith, there was…whatever the heck this is. Sam and Dean learn that they shouldn't judge a monster by how it looks…or how it talks.

~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~

**Are We Supposed to Take This Seriously?**

"Why am I doing this? Really? Isn't it, like, obvious?"

Dean pressed himself against the wall and seethed. He could hear the bitch, but he couldn't see her.

Who he could see was Sam, stripped to the waist, gagged, bound, and splayed out on the table like some sacrificial virgin. He was moving, so he was awake. The clench of fear in Dean's gut eased a bit. It didn't go away by a long shot. It wouldn't go away until the—whatever the hell she was—was dead and Sam was properly triaged.

Then he was going to throttle Sam for getting captured in the first place and making Dean worry about him.

Again.

_Getting freakin' old, Sammy._

"I mean, _hello_! Have you _seen_ you?"

It was almost laughable. She sounded like a twelve-year-old; looked like one, too from the two-second glimpse Dean had gotten of her before she stepped out of his line of sight. She wasn't, of course. She was more like one hundred and twelve. The pigtails and ankle socks were just a—what the hell had Sam called it, the geek?—a glamour to trick unsuspecting, dew-eyed softies.

Like Sam.

Yeah, it was almost laughable until one took a look at the bodies she left in her wake. There was nothing laughable about those poor bastards. She'd hurt them before she'd killed them. It was how she fed, or at least that had been Sam's theory based on the 'lore' he'd uncovered at the local university library.

In truth, Dean hadn't really cared all that much about what it was or why it did what it did. He'd only cared about killing it before it took another victim.

"It uses venom to subdue its victims," he'd practically yelled into his phone, effectively silencing Sam's mythology lesson midsentence. "The M. E. found traces of it in the victims' blood work. Some kind of paralytic toxin or some such. Fast acting. Dissipates quickly.

"This changes things, Sammy," he'd continued before Sam could get a word in edgewise. "Meet me back at the motel, and _don't argue!_"

Of course, Sam had argued. It was what Sam did when he thought Dean was being unreasonably over-protective, as if there was such a thing where Sam was concerned.

The way that kid seemed to attract trouble? Was he kidding?

"Dean," Sam had protested, but Dean shot him down.

"_She's got a type, Sam!_ And you're it. Now, get back to the motel and watch yourself. I'll be there in less than 20."

Of course, 'less than 20' hadn't been fast enough.

Sometimes Dean really, really hated being right.

"Oh but then, you can't _see_ you, _can_ you" she…it…whatever continued in that sicky-sweet, little-girl's voice. "Shall I tell you then? Won't that be a laugh?"

No, Dean wasn't laughing. He was pissed and itching to show Little Miss Suzy Sunshine what happened to beasties who messed with Dean Winchester's little brother. Until she reappeared, though, he could do nothing but hide and wait.

Suddenly, Sam's body tensed. The rise and fall of his chest sped up and the muscles in his arms bunched as he fought the restraints in increasing panic. Dean's heart sped up to match.

"You are just…capital…oh…em…gee, exclamation point—"

Seriously? Who the hell actually talked like that?

She stepped into view beside the table and Dean's breath caught in his throat. She didn't look twelve anymore. The face was the same and yet, not; older, grayer, longer. The body was taller, the torso elongated as though it had been stretched out disproportionately. She looked less human and more _nasty._ That made things so much easier.

Her body moved strangely as though there were joints where they didn't belong. It was fluid and jerky all at the same time. She grabbed Sam's ankle then walked long, twisted fingers up his jean-clad leg. Dean sighted down the barrel of his beloved Colt 1911, but she disappeared behind the large support column standing between where Dean hid and where Sam lay helpless.

_Dammit!_

"—Parenthesis, grins with _delicious_ goodness, close parenthesis—"

The voice was the same despite the larger body, high and child-like. Each ridiculous word was drawn out and over enunciated, and the note of sadistic madness that crept into her tone when she'd said _delicious_ made Dean's skin crawl.

Her hand came back into view, then her arm; her fingers walking up Sam's thigh, across his groin, and onto his abdomen. Sam tried to jerk away, sucking in his stomach to avoid her touch. His movements were clumsy.

_Drugged? Hurt? Both?_

She just giggled. An honest-to-God _giggle_ that set Dean's teeth on edge. He clenched his jaw until it ached from the pressure. _Come on! Just a little bit further._

"F. I. N. E. Fine. Exclamation." She scratched her nail down Sam's stomach. "Point." Then stabbed her nail into his flesh.

Sam's yelled behind the gag in his mouth.

"Exclamation." She gouged another trough through Sam's skin, this time down his ribs. "Point." She stabbed him again.

_Sonuvabitch!_

She stepped out from behind the column. Her hand reached for his neck, her finger poised over his throat.

Dean sighted. _Gotta be a headshot._

"Exclamation."

And pulled the trigger.

The bullet pierced her temple and she let out a hideous screech as she collapsed out of sight. Dean was already moving, sprinting across the room and around the end of the table, gun cocked and ready. She wasn't moving and a thick, sooty green mist was rising out of the wound in her temple. Dean put another bullet in her just to be safe.

Tucking the gun into his waistband, Dean turned to his brother.

He made quick work of the cloth around Sam's mouth, then grabbed Sam's face in both hands.

Sam drew in deep gasps of air and Dean couldn't help but breathe with him. It was one of the things he'd read in the reports; the victims all died of asphyxiation and yet there were no marks on their throats to indicate strangulation or bruises around their mouths to indicate suffocation. It was what had prompted the M. E. to rerun the blood to look for toxins in the first place.

Sam seemed to be breathing okay, albeit a little too rapidly. His eyes had the glassy quality of the concussed or drugged but they held their focus, more or less; and he gave Dean a small, lopsided smile.

"Whu kep'ya?" he asked, his words terribly slurred. Dean wanted to shoot her again. It had been too, damned close. Another minute and…

He shook the thought aside. He'd gotten there in time. The monster was dead and Sam was alive, and that was all that mattered at the moment.

"Stopped to get lunch," he quipped. He looked at Sam's face, cataloging the grayish pallor of his skin, the blown pupils, and the slight slackening around his mouth. "Figured, you were busy here with your date." He slid his fingers to the pulse-point at Sam's throat, not even trying to be subtle about it, and noted the beat. It was slower than it should have been for how fast Sam was breathing, but not dangerously so. "You know, the one I told you _not_ to go on alone."

"She w's v'ry pers..wa…" Sam's eyes suddenly grew wide, and his breathing hitched and stalled. "D—d'n?"

"What's the matter?" He already knew, but habit made him ask anyway. The pulse stayed slow and sluggish despite the obvious, building panic.

"C-can't…feel…m-my…ton…"

"I know, I know. It's the venom. She must'a dosed ya again when she decided to carve her freaky-assed punctuation into your freaky-assed gut. Just stay calm, okay? I need you to stay calm and focus on breathing. Can you do that? Just breathe."

Sam nodded, the motion jerky and uncoordinated. His eyes locked onto Dean's, his pupils so blown there was nothing left of the iris but a thin ring of hazel. No way could he see clearly. He drew a shaky breath, held it, and let it out. The rhythm was off but it was clear he was trying to regain control of it.

"That's right. You know the drill, Sammy. In through the nose, one, two, and out through the mouth, three, four."

Sam actually rolled his eyes at the reminder of the 'drill'—Dean could almost hear him bitch, _I'm not a four-year-old, Dean!_—but it was working. The rhythm was evening out. Dean gave him his I-told-you-so smirk.

"Keep that up. I'm gonna untie you but I want you to lie still, okay? Don't try to move." When he didn't get a response, he grabbed Sam's face again. "You hear me, in there?" he said forcefully. "Do. Not. Move."

Sam blinked. The rhythm of his breathing skipped a beat. "Yeah," he managed."

Dean gave him a quick pat on the cheek then set to work on the ropes around his wrists and ankles. She'd used coarse rope and the knots were tight, the rope sticky with sweat and blood. Beneath the coils, Sam's wrists were abraded raw and swollen making it difficult to slip the blade of his knife under the coils and saw them apart.

"Sorry," he muttered under his breath, not that Sam could hear him over the sound of his own harsh breathing. It didn't seem as though he'd felt anything either, as the well-sharpened blade severed the rope. Loss of circulation? A by-product of the venom? Dean wasn't sure what it meant beyond the immediate: he didn't have to worry about causing Sam more pain as he cut him loose.

True to his word—though it was more likely due to the venom—Sam didn't move as the last of the ropes fell free.

"How ya doin', Sammy?" he asked, cupping the side of Sam's face.

"'Kay," he answered. "Off?"

Dean winced. "Yeah, the ropes are off. You're free." He reached down and squeezed Sam's hand. It was cold to the touch and lax in his grip. "Can you feel this?"

Sam frowned. His eyes shifted to the side in concentration then snapped back to Dean's. "Yeah. Ting'ly. P-pins an'… Oh, this's gonna suck."

Dean laughed, "'Fraid so."

If he was feeling that dreaded pins-and-needles sensation already, maybe that meant the latest dose of toxin was already starting to dissipate. Dean hoped so. No way was he looking forward to having to carry Sam's dead weight back to the car.

How much toxin had he been exposed to before Dean had walked in on her little, twisted poetry reading?

Scratches and gouges crisscrossed Sam's arms from wrist to shoulder. There were more across his chest, and stomach; some deep and crusted with dried blood, some shallow and welted. The two long scratches, bisecting the hatched pattern on his chest—her _exclamation points_, which was a level of crazy-psycho-bitch he hoped he _never_ had the misfortune to experience, again—bled sluggishly. The punctures below them were swollen and bruised, the blood trapped beneath the surface of the skin.

The rational side of Dean's brain said that he'd been lucky compared to the victims she'd killed. They'd looked like they'd been mauled by a giant cat and then rolled in razor blades. The big brother in Dean said screw that! He couldn't _wait_ to salt and burn that bitch's body for what she'd done to his brother. He was just sorry that she wasn't going to feel any of it when he did it.

Because Sam was sure going to feel something when Dean had to clean out all those scratches and gouges and punctures.

With holy water.

"Dean?"

He tore his gaze away from the mess on Sam's torso and met Sam's eyes. There was a resignation in them that only made things harder.

"t'sokay," Sam said. His fingers twitched and curled weakly around Dean's. He'd forgotten he was still holding Sam's hand. "I know… what… y'gotta do."

Of course, he did. He'd done the research on this…whatever it was. He knew what was involved.

"J-jus' do it. Now."

Now, while the toxin was still in his system and he was still numb. That's what Sam was suggesting and Dean wanted to smack him for it. Sam knew that wasn't going to matter and he knew damned well that Dean knew it. Once that holy water hit those scratches, Sam was going to feel every bit of it. That was just how it worked with these cursed creatures. He was just trying to make it easier on Dean.

That just pissed him off even more. Would it be terribly petty of him to round the table just to give her corpse a kick?

Did he care?

He gave Sam's hand a quick squeeze then tore himself away. The sooner he got this over with the sooner they could get out of there.

He'd left his duffle bag in his hiding spot and he stormed off to retrieve it. It took less than a minute for him to return to Sam's side, yet Sam's eyes were closed. His heart did a little lurch in his chest. He dropped the bag to the floor and gave Sam's arm a shake.

"Hey!"

Sam's eyes drifted open. A dimple appeared in one cheek; Dean couldn't tell if it was a smile or a grimace. "You're _so_ kickin' m'ass wh'n I'm feelin' better, huh?"

"Not funny, bitch. Stay awake."

Sam mumbled something that Dean couldn't quite make out, but he'd smiled when he'd said it so apparently he'd thought it was funny. Dean let it slide. He wouldn't be laughing in a few minutes. He'd be lucky if he didn't pass out cold.

Actually, he'd be lucky if he _did_.

Dean knelt and yanked the zipper open. Inside were two half-gallon jugs of water with a small rosary floating in each one. He'd known going in what he might find and what he might need. He'd also known that he might not have time to prep what he'd need so he'd come prepared.

He set the jugs beside the bag then fished out a clean towel and a thick leather strap. His knees popped as he stood. He tossed the towel across one shoulder then looked at Sam.

"You ready?" he asked, not that it mattered if he was or not. It had to be done.

Sam took a deep breath and nodded.

He opened his mouth and Dean laid the leather strap across his bottom teeth. Sam closed his eyes as he bit down on the strap. Dean didn't protest. He hefted the first bottle and tore off the cap.

"Here goes."

The scratches were worse on his torso, so Dean started there. The wounds sizzled as soon as the water hit them, a thick, greenish-gray puff of oily fumes billowing up. Sam screamed around the strap in his mouth. He drove his head back into the hard surface of the table, the cords of his neck bulging and straining. His body was lax by compare. He couldn't even make fists.

"Sorry," Dean choked. The fumes smelled awful and left a gritty feel to the back of his throat. Instinct said to turn away but he didn't. He needed to see when the reaction stopped.

When the water hit the newest scratches, Sam's back arched off the table on another scream. It gutted Dean to see it—to know he was causing it no matter how necessary it was—but he was relieved, too. The paralysis was wearing off. The water ran black, then red as new blood was pushed to the surface of the wounds, as though helping to push the vileness out of the body. The punctures reacted the worst, as he'd expected them to; and tears flowed freely from the corners of Sam's tightly closed eyes by the time the water ran clear. His chest was heaving.

How was he even still conscious?

"You still with me, Sammy?" Dean asked, tossing the empty jug aside and grabbing the second.

Sam opened his eyes and nodded. His lashes were spikey with tears; but his eyes were already improving, the pupils shrunken down to almost normal size.

"Not done yet," Dean told him. He couldn't mask the regret in his voice. This was killing him inside. He grabbed the second jug and pulled off the cap. "Try not the break my hand, okay"

He grasped Sam's hand as tightly as he could, relieved when he felt Sam's long fingers wrap around his with greater strength. Again the wounds reacted as soon as the holy water touched them, and the pain tore a scream out of Sam that choked off into a sob. He fought to pull his arm away from the agony, his hand squeezing Dean's with greater force until Dean could feel the bones shifting beneath his skin.

Dean cried out. Sam's hand snapped open and Dean yanked his throbbing hand out of his grasp then pinned Sam's arm to the table. They were both gasping for breath by the time the water ran clear.

And, he still had to do the other arm. He didn't know if either of them could take it.

Turned out, Sam couldn't. As soon as the water landed on the scratches snaking up his arm, he screamed and blessedly passed out. Dean made quick work of it after that, emptying the bottle even after the water was clear just to be safe.

His hands were shaking as he tossed the jug to the floor and removed the leather strap from Sam's mouth. The thick leather held a perfect imprint of Sam's teeth where he'd nearly bitten through it. Dean shuddered and tossed that onto the floor with the jugs.

He covered Sam's body with the towel, gently rubbing his hands up and down his arms and across his chest to dry him off. The last thing Sam needed was to catch a chill on top of all this.

Keeping one hand on Sam's arm, as much for his own benefit as it was for Sam's, he reached down into the duffle bag for their canteen. It, too, contained holy water; but it was for its rehydration properties that he wanted it, now. The blessing wouldn't hurt him.

"Sam," he called. He patted Sam's cheek until he roused. "Here, drink some of this." There was a moment of confusion and maybe of panic. Sam turned his head aside, his hands flopping against Dean's arm as he tried to push the canteen away. "No, no, no. Sam, hey!" Dean caught his flailing hand and pressed it to his side. "It's okay. It's over. It's over. Just…just drink."

He carefully lifted Sam's head up enough so he could swallow without choking and held the canteen to his lips. He held his breath as the first drops touched Sam's lips. When nothing happened, he let it out.

He let Sam take a few sips before he pulled it away. He'd give him more when he was vertical. He was looking a little green around the edges and didn't want him throwing up.

"How you doing?" Dean asked.

"Wa' s'right," Sam uttered. His voice was raw from screaming.

"'Bout what?"

"That…_really_ sucked."

_Yes, it did._ Out loud, Dean asked, "You think you can sit up, now?"

"Maybe."

Dean grasped Sam's hand and carefully slipped his other arm under Sam's back. He was doing all the work as he lifted, and Sam's head flopped onto his shoulder like a ragdoll. All of his weight seemed to sink into Dean's arms.

Fearing Sam had passed out, Dean gave him a little shake. "Sam?"

"Jus'…uhm."

"Give you a minute. Yeah. I gotcha. Just breathe."

He had to be feeling like crap. There was still a clumsiness to his movements as though not all the paralysis had fully faded from his limbs. Dean would have liked to just let him lie there for as long as he needed, but he couldn't risk it. He needed to get Sam out of that room and out of that building and safely tucked into the back seat of the Impala.

And then he had a body to burn. Not the easiest task in the middle of a university town, but certainly not impossible. It would have been easier with Sam's help… Right now, Dean would settle for not having to toss Sam over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

He felt Sam stir and take some of his own weight back. Dean kept a hold on him. He didn't need him toppling off the table and falling onto the hard, concrete floor.

"'m good," Sam claimed.

"Sure ya are," Dean remarked. "No rush."

He held up the canteen and Sam reached up a shaking hand to take it. His aim was a little off and he ended up covering Dean's hand instead. Dean just steadied the canteen as Sam tipped it, letting him drink his fill. Water dripped from the corner of his mouth as he drank and dripped down his neck and across his chest. It rolled harmlessly over the scratches.

"Think you're ready to try standing?" Dean asked, dropping the canteen into the open bag at his feet.

"No, but…'m'ready t'get outta here."

His speech was improving, too. Now, he merely sounded exhausted. Dean shucked his jacket and over shirt, keeping one hand on his wobbling brother the whole time. He carefully directed Sam's hands into the sleeves of the shirt and settled it up onto his shoulders.

"I got it," Sam grumbled when Dean reached for the buttons.

Dean backed off and watched as Sam's uncoordinated fingers fumbled.

"Oh for the love of…" Dean snapped with impatience. He slapped Sam's hands away and quickly buttoned the shirt enough to keep it closed. He started to feed Sam's hands into the jacket, too; but Sam pulled away. "Shut up and take it 'til we get to the car."

Sam gave him a look that was equal parts guilt, annoyance, and embarrassment, but he let Dean help him into the jacket as well. Dean adjusted the collar in the back, then let his hand linger on the back of Sam's neck.

"Dean?" Sam said suddenly.

Dean blinked, realizing that he'd been standing there for a while_._

"Hey, I'm fine, Dean," Sam reassured. "Really."

_I know. I know._ Dean gave himself a mental shake and shoved the last traces of his fear behind a scowl.

"Yeah, Grammar Rock, over there, sure thought you were, _like_, F. I. N. E. Fine."

Sam rolled his eyes, then grabbed Dean's closest arm and started to push himself off the table. He groaned as soon as his feet touched the ground and his knees buckled, his fingers digging into Dean's arm to keep himself standing while the circulation returned to his legs.

"Pins and needles?" Dean asked.

Sam could only nod. His eyes were squeezed closed and his teeth were clenched.

"That sucks."

Several minutes went by before Sam even tried to take a step. When he finally did, he stomped each foot against the ground harder than necessary. At least his balance seemed to be intact. He made an ungraceful circuit around the table and only had to brace himself once or twice. Dean kept a steady eye on him as he repacked the duffle and zipped it closed.

"What about her?" Sam asked, staring down at the body.

Dean stood and hoisted the duffle onto his shoulder. "I'll come back and take care of it."

"What?" Sam protested, turning a little too quickly to fix that stubborn expression on Dean. He grabbed the table edge to hold himself up.

"What, nothing, Grace." Dean answered. "Can't carry you both and you're about as steady as a co-ed at Spring Break."

He slung Sam's arm over his other shoulder and slid his arm around Sam's back, hooking his thumb through the belt loop of Sam's jeans for extra leverage in case he should stumble.

He gave the corpse one last glance then shook his head. "Really, Sam?" he tsked. "I can't believe you let a freaking Britney Spears wannabe take you down."

"She was a freakin' two-hundred-year-old, _fast_ Britney Spears wannabe," Sam protested.

"That was the size of a _twelve-year-old_, Sam," Dean volleyed back. He carefully turned Sam away from its remains and started towards the door.

"She came outta nowhere."

"Keep tellin' yourself that, Sammy. Keep tellin' yourself that."

"Whatever."

Dean just smirked.

~~~~~~~_FINI_~~~~~~~~~


End file.
